


My Heart in My Hand

by shaenie



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fisting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-22
Updated: 2013-07-22
Packaged: 2017-12-21 00:36:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/893739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shaenie/pseuds/shaenie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint needs something to bring him back from the events of The Avengers, and Phil is more than willing to take care of that for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Heart in My Hand

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Fisting/Stretching square on my Kink Bingo Card.
> 
> Thanks to [](http://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfshark)[](http://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfshark)**wolfshark** for the superfast beta!

The first thing that Phil sees when he walks into his office is a small origami box sitting in the middle of his blotter. He sits down behind his desk and considers it. The sight of it alone is enough to make him half-hard in his pants, but he doesn’t open it right away. He knows from experience that looking inside before he gets essential work done will be enough to fracture his concentration for the rest of the day.

He puts it under the edge of his computer monitor and starts on today’s reports; it’s mostly tidying up from the rest of the week. That’s why the boxes only show up on Fridays. It isn’t always the lightest work day of the week -- if they’re running missions, it could be one of the heaviest -- but in the normal course of things, it often is.

He hasn’t come in to find a box on his desk in almost two months. Since he’d almost died, since he’d been held together with staples and the untested medical equipment that Phil knows was used, but doesn’t actually have the clearance to know the details of (and those sorts of things are few and far between). 

Phil has been healing at a super-accelerated rate, though; he knows that much. He knows his own body, and a spear through the back should have been fatal. Even on the off chance that it wasn’t, it should have lain a man Phil’s age up for at least a year, with physical therapy and with the necessary reconditioning of his body. More likely, he should have been quietly retired, or at least relegated to a permanent desk job, never to see action in the field again.

Instead, Phil feels almost well. The scar still pulls at him sometimes, and he occasionally experiences phantom pain between his shoulder blades, but the truth is, Phil feels fine. Phil actually feels better than he has in at least ten years. If his body and soul didn’t already belong to SHIELD, he’d have accepted the daily injections (which he suspects contain Captain America’s blood, but again, apparently doesn’t have the clearance to find out for sure) anyway, just because they’re clearly working. 

Phil is fifty years old, and it’s been at least ten years since he felt this good. Maybe more like fifteen.

Less than a month ago, he’d started to train with Clint and Natasha again (with occasional guest appearances by Steve); last week he had run a marathon.

He thinks he might have more hair.

So aside from the boxes, Phil has no regrets.

He hadn’t expected them at first; he was ill and clearly incapable.

Since he’d started training with his specialists, though, he’d been waiting, a little more disappointed every time he’d opened his office and hadn’t found a box waiting for him.

Phil rushes through his daily checklist, knowing even as he does that he’s going to have to re-do at least some of these things on Monday. He consoles himself by only half-assing things that aren’t actually that important. But the fact is, he can’t work with the purple and gold origami box sitting right there in front of him. Not when it’s been so long.

It isn’t even lunch time yet when he closes out all his documents and turns his attention toward the box.

It’s meticulously made, as always, the woven paper of the lid fitting precisely over the corners of the box. It feels solid and giving at once in his hand, and Phil would like to pretend his hands aren’t unsteady with anticipation, but God, he needs this so much.

The lid set aside, Phil reaches in and retrieves a square of pale lavender paper, folded over once. He holds it in his hand, as he always does, imagining what will be written inside. It’s never the same thing twice. Phil is always surprised.

He flips the paper open and reads the word written there with a jolt that’s somewhere between shock and arousal.

 _Fisting_.

He folds it carefully and slides it into his pants pocket, and then stands to pull on his coat. There’s no way he’s getting anything else done today, which leaves only one thing to do.

He logs out of his system and locks his office door behind him.

It takes him twenty-five minutes in midday traffic to get home, but Phil doesn’t resent it. He’s just grateful they aren’t on the helicarrier right now.

He isn’t surprised that his apartment door is unlocked, though he carefully locks it again behind him. Clint, settled onto the couch with a blanket puddled in his lap stares, wide-eyed with surprise, as Phil stalks into the room.

“Be naked in my bed in five minutes,” Phil says, and Clint swallows visibly, but jumps up to obey without question. 

Phil strips down to his undershirt and pants, and takes the time to gather up everything he needs from the bathroom. He checks the enema apparatus under the sink and finds it still beaded with water, to his satisfaction. Clint hadn’t been bluffing then, had known enough to do his part, even if he’s never done the rest of it before.

They’ve talked about it. It’s one of Phil’s most wicked kinks. But Clint has never volunteered.

Uncertain more than scared, Phil thinks. And now. Well, Phil had almost died. It’s the kind of thing that makes a person far more likely to take a chance. Phil probably should talk to Clint about it; he should probably make sure Clint is sure about what he wants. But he’s not going to. Clint is an adult, and Phil has wanted to do this to him for far too long to give him an easy out now.

And Phil is not lying to himself; this feels like a way to reclaim Clint. A way to take him back, after the way they had become so separate. He wants to work his hand into Clint’s body and pull Clint back to Phil with that fundamental connection. He wants this chance to turn Clint inside out the way that he knows that he can, the way that Clint doesn’t understand yet is possible.

Phil checks his nails quickly, finds them brutally short and entirely smooth, and then leaves the bathroom for the bedroom.

Clint is naked on his bed, his legs curled in front of him. His cheeks are hectic with color, and he looks half terrified, but his face opens up when he sees Phil, enough hope and want there to balance out his fear.

“Scoot,” Phil says, and gestures toward the bottom of the bed. Clint does, wordlessly, and Phil spreads out an enormous bath sheet across the middle of the bed. He isn’t worried about the bedclothes. They’re going to have to be changed, anyway. He just doesn’t want lube seeping through to the mattress. _Are you sure, are you sure?_ he thinks, but refuses to let himself say. “Lie down in the middle with two pillows under your hips,” he says instead.

Clint snatches up two pillow and flings himself across them face down, his legs already spread out wide. He clenches his fists into the top of the sheet, and his body is taut with nerves, but he’s also already hard, and Phil would do it even if he wasn’t, but Clint’s desire will make it so much easier.

Before, in the days when the origami boxes had shown up with frequent and acrobatic suggestions, Phil would’ve started Clint quickly, worked him roughly to the point that Clint would beg (something Clint enjoyed being pushed to do, and that Phil enjoyed hearing), but it’s been long enough now that he has to be more cautious. He doesn’t know that Clint has been doing anything alone to keep himself stretched, and he definitely hasn’t been doing anything with Phil.

Phil lubes the first three fingers of his right hand liberally, and then reaches down between Clint’s legs to catch Clint’s cock with his left hand. Clint huffs out a husky moan with a whispered, “Phil,” and Phil strokes his cock lightly while he slides one finger against the opening of Clint’s body. Clint’s ass and thighs flex as he pushes back, eager, and Phil eases a finger inside, feeling Clint hot and tight, muscle wrenching around Phil’s fingers, but not so tight as Phil had feared. Clint has likely been using something inside himself; Phil makes a note to demand a demonstration when he is not so focussed on what he’s doing. 

Phil twists his wrist and finds Clint’s prostate and Clint tightens, shivering, and then loosens a little more, pressing back again on Phil’s finger.

“Another?” Phil asks, ignoring how rough his own voice sounds; he is already lost in the act. God help them if Clint safewords, as Phil isn’t sure he could stop even now. He feels like he has to have this, like he has to draw Clint back to him, and this is the way he knows to do it.

“Yeah, Phil,” Clint pants, spreading his legs a little wider and arching his back. “Please, don’t stop. I want it all.”

Phil breathes deeply as he presses a second finger into Clint, breathes again, more harshly, when Clint moans and squirms in pleasure that Phil can tell is absolutely forthright. Clint can never hide things from Phil, has never tried. To the rest of SHIELD, his smart-ass persona is completely opaque, but Phil has always known better. Phil scissors his fingers inside Clint, but he’s barely having to work at all to loosen the muscle there. Clint must have done something _today_ to be so ready so soon, probably directly before he’d given himself an enema. 

Phil’s cock is aching at the idea, and he reminds himself that he wants a demonstration of that, as well.

“I can take more,” Clint whispers, shifting a little so his knees are up under him, and pressing back against Phil’s hand. “Please, I need you to do this for me.”

Phil slides a third finger into Clint, and Clint lets out a low, groan, the muscle of his asshole squeezing and fluttering around Phil’s slippery fingers. Clint is tight now, his hole clenching and unclenching rhythmically, but he doesn’t seem to care. He presses back onto Phil’s fingers as Phil spreads them and twists Clint open.

Sweat has gathered along the line of Clint’s spine, and his cock has almost entirely slicked Phil’s left hand with precome. Phil wipes it on the bath sheet and raises it up to cup Clint’s left ass cheek, pulling him open with a thumb tucked next to his hole. Clint’s hands wring at the bedclothes and he tries to spread his legs wider still.

“Take me back,” Clint pants. “You have to.”

Phil goes still for a moment, and Clint lets out a short, hurt mewl of a sound. “Clint, I never let you go,” he says firmly, and he means it, in spite of the fact his own thoughts are not that different than Clint’s have been. “I’m going to take you like this because I want to, I want you to feel me reach inside you, but I don’t have to do it to take you back. You’ve always been mine.”

“No, yes, Phil, I know. But they took me, and I can’t come back on my own. You have to do it. You have to make me feel it,” Clint says, breath hitching. “Please, Phil, it’s all I can think of.”

Phil’s chest aches, pulling a twinge of pain from his scar, but he understands better than he wants to. “Clint, I promise you, I can bring you back.” He traces a hand along the small of Clint’s back, and Clint eases a little under the caress. “You’ve never belonged to anyone the way you’re about to belong to me, but I need you to relax as much as you can.”

“It’s good, I’m good,” Clint huffs, but he does relax, some of the tension seeping out of his body, some of the pressure loosened from around Phil’s fingers.

“I know, you’re so good, Clint,” Phil murmurs. “But you have to be better, you have to let go and let me open you wide.”

“Please,” Clint begs, a small, soft entreaty that makes Phil’s cock throb desperately in his pants.

Phil grabs the lube and slicks up more of his hand, pulling the three fingers already inside Clint partially free to push more lube into him, though Clint whines and struggles not to let them go. “Easy,” Phil says, and presses back inside so that Clint relaxes again. “Just take it easy.”

“I can’t wait,” Clint begs, his voice grating a little with some kind of pain that Phil recognizes isn’t physical. “Hurry.”

“I’ll go as fast as it’s safe to go,” Phil promises, and stretches his fingers within Clint to their limit, quickly sliding his pinky in before Clint can tighten down again. Clint grunts, breathless, tense again for several long seconds, and then slowly easing the grip of his ass around most of Phil’s hand. Phil twists his wrist and eases his fingers apart, stunned at how tight Clint is, and at how the idea of having Clint’s hole squeezing down around his wrist makes the pit of Phil’s belly feel like it’s full of twisting white-hot shards of need. 

He pushes his hand in rhythmically, stretching his fingers, pulling them back and plunging them in again until the thin webbing between his thumb and forefinger is pressing up against the rim of Clint’s stretched hole and Clint is taking his hand up past the knuckles of his fingers. Clint is groaning, low and needy, interspersed with, “Please, Phil, all of it, all of you, please.”

Phil has to pause and open his pants with his free hand, releasing his straining cock, before he can go any further, for fear that he’ll cut off circulation to it entirely.

“This is the hard part,” Phil grates out, his own voice cracking with want as he pours more lube into his palm, working it into Clint, and then over his thumb and the rest of the hand, until his skin is coated with it. “Just try to relax.”

“Don’t want to relax,” Clint slurs. “Want you to fuck me with your fist.”

“God, Clint,” Phil says, momentarily dizzy just at the sound of those words coming from Clint’s mouth. He folds his thumb into the palm of his hand, pulling his whole hand in as narrow as it will go, and begins to push carefully, bracing Clint’s hip with his free hand.

Clint grunts out a low groan, clearly a sound of some discomfort, but Phil doesn’t stop. He eases forward, feeling the rim of Clint’s asshole slowly flex around the assault of Phil’s hand. Phil doesn’t stop even when Clint’s breath starts hitching, soundlessly, but Phil recognizes it as tears nonetheless. He is almost there, his thumb tucked inside, keeping the pressure steady as he works the widest part of his hand inside. 

Clint chokes out, “Phil, it, I...” and then shouts out from between clenched teeth even as Phil feels his hand slide fully inside, Clint’s hole tightening and loosening around Phil’s wrist. “God, oh,” Clint sobs. “I need...”

Phil slowly spreads his hand inside the furnace of Clint’s body, and Clint jerks out a helpless, choking cry and comes, his body battering at Phil’s hand inside it. Phile groans and fists his hand loosely, adds more lube to his wrist, and shoves inside just a little, a slow, carefully timed series of movements, feeling the ball of his thumb graze against Clint’s prostate again and again. 

Clint shudders, looser now that he’s come, but still so tight and perfect, and Phil fucks Clint gently with his closed fist, _owns_ Clint’s ass without question, and Clint barely breathes, just grinding out, “Yes, please, Phil, you feel so good, I’m so full, I can’t stop, I think I’m...” and he comes again, a high pitched keen this time, his hole so tight around Phil’s wrists that Phil suspects there’ll be a bruise.

“Good, are you good, Clint?” Phil breathes heavily, his cock an _agony_. “I have you back now, are you back?”

Clint’s voice is a messy sprawl. “Yeah, Phil, tha’s, s’perfect, y’re perfect,” and that’s enough for Phil. He stretches out his hand, pulling Clint as wide as he’ll go, and then collapses his fingers inward quickly, though he still has to go slow, so slow, to pull his hand free. Clint moans and tries to object with broken pleas, but he doesn’t actively fight Phil, and when finally it’s done, he collapses face down on the bed, his hips still elevated by the pillows.

“I have to be inside you now, Clint,” Phil groans, pulling his body up Clint’s back to line his cock up. “Clint, can I fuck you?”

“Please,” Clint hisses, and Phil slides his cock into Clint’s over-stretched ass in one quick, heartless motion. Clint hisses again, jerking, and Phil knows he’s sore, but he has to have it, it has to be like this, and then Clint is just chanting, “Please, Phil, Please.”

Next time they do this, Phil will make sure to come before they start, but this time he has no stamina at all, which is probably best for Clint anyway. He fucks Clint’s stretched ass, twisting his hips hard enough to make Clint cry out, but it only lasts for a minute before he’s pumping harshly into Clint, grinding his teeth at the way that filling Clint with his come feels like he’s exorcising the grinding splinters of need that had been roosting at the base of his spine. 

Phil lets his forehead drop to rest between Clint’s shoulder blades, breathing heavily. He’s simultaneously exhausted and still so turned on he can’t imagine letting Clint out of his sight. Clint is breathing almost as heavily, and his hands are still scrunched in the sheets, but he’s relaxed beneath Phil, no tension that Phil can feel.

“Clint?” Phil asks, and shifts back to pull out as slowly as he can.

“Can’t talk; dead now. Try later,” Clint mumbles, but he shifts his head to one side so that he can look at Phil. His eyes are dazed, but he’s smiling.

Phil drags a corner of the bath sheet over to get as much lube off of his arm and hand as he can, but there’s no doubt about it. All the bedclothes have to be washed, and Clint and Phil need showers desperately.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Phil finally asks.

Clint blinks. “I told you when I could. When I knew what to do about it.”

“Did you think that if you’d told me before, I might have been able to help figure out what to do about it?” Phil asks, but he’s not really that surprised.

“You were healing,” Clint says simply.

“Yes,” Phil says, accepting that answer, though there is going to have to be some conversation later in the future about what constitutes healing. “Was it what you wanted?”

Clint grins. “I should have let you talk me into it ages ago. Was it what _you_ wanted?”

“It was exactly what I wanted. I’d do it again right now if either of us were up to it. As it is, I plan to make you take a shower, and then spend the rest of the night fucking you raw.”

“You’ve always got the best plans, sir,” Clint winks.


End file.
